


Exorcism

by glacis



Category: X Files
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-01-28
Updated: 2010-01-28
Packaged: 2017-10-06 18:42:00
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,081
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/56662
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/glacis/pseuds/glacis
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Nothing is as it appears. It's probably just as well. Severe alteration of the events of Essence and Existence. After all, if TPTB can toss character and continuity out the window with impunity, I can surely do no worse.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Exorcism

Exorcism, an X Files fix-it.

_November 16, 1995_ __

_Outside Tozeur, Tunisia_

"What is it?" Krycek turned the metal fragment over in his hands, staring at the symbols. They resonated deep within him, a not-unpleasant hum that radiated from his palms through his arms and along his bones until his entire body was thrumming. His contact looked up at him fearfully.

But then, Tam Ki looked at everyone fearfully. It was one of the few ways an international smuggler could deal with everyone from ex-Consortium agents to the Mafia and live through it. Fear, and an uncanny knack for finding things to sell that no one else could or would handle. The man muttered something about Africa, and Krycek tore his gaze away from the plate-sized chunk of extraterrestrial debris long enough to glare at him.

"What the fuck are you babbling about?" he asked. At least, that was his intent.

Instead, the world went black.

When he came back to himself, there was a stinking smoky scorch mark where his source used to be. His head hurt. He tasted oil on his tongue.

"Son of a fucking bitch," he whispered.

This time, something answered back.

Ours, it whispered. In his brain. In his bones.

In his blood.

He thought about throwing up, but the impulse to puke was missing in action, scared out of him by the realization that he was once again a carrier of the Black Oil. He stared around the burnt-out remains of what had once been the hallway of an apartment building, and started to shake. Not for Tam. It was much too late to feel anything for the smuggler.

For himself.

There had to be a way to get himself out of this. He simply had to find it. It wouldn't be the first time he'd saved himself from hell. With his luck, it wouldn't be the last.

 

_February 18, 1997_ __

_Anantapur_ _, India_ __

"Our current strategy will lead us to annihilation." Ink-black eyes stared from a handsome, even-featured face. They looked alien against the soft cream skin. Equally black eyes stared back at him from the weathered face of a Tunisian man. Both faces were eerily expressionless.

"Your plan will not work. There are too many participants on the canvas already."

"It must work," a third voice, coming from an Indian woman of indeterminate years and pure black eyes, over-rode the two men. "Our mules are no longer trustworthy. They place themselves in league with the Earth hosts. Dissension in their ranks leave us vulnerable."

"That is why I propose introducing a new element." Calmly, eyes never leaving his compatriots, the man picked up a long, wickedly sharp knife from the table. Placing his right hand flat on the tabletop, fingers spread, he drew the blade quickly across it, severing all four fingers.

No one blinked.

Blood spurted from the site of the amputation. As they watched, the maimed hand extruded a nearly invisible film of black oil, until the blood slowed to a stop, impeded from its flow by the black barrier that matched the black of their eyes.

Within moments, stumps began to grow. Shortly thereafter, four perfectly formed fingers had replaced those the man had cut off. Flexing them slowly, he reached into his jacket pocket and withdrew a thick rubber glove. Sliding his now-whole right hand into it, he smiled serenely at the other two.

"Eventually we will have no need of the shifters, and we can purge them. With regenerative hosts, we need no longer rely on the unreliable in our battle for territory with our Enemy. There will be no further windows of opportunity for our Enemy to destroy us when we are vulnerable, moving from a damaged host to a new host. These hosts will allow us to remain indefinitely. They're virtually indestructible."

Silent communication flowed between them, as arguments were brought to bear from the collective mind to turn the few dissenters toward an agreement. In very little time, the Oil Aliens had a new weapon.

"Your first assignment in your new host," the woman told him quietly. "Make them believe it. Our future depends on it."

Krycek smiled again. The serenity gave way to pure ice. "I live to serve." The jet black coating his eyes shifted, becoming striations, then fading to allow the clear green beneath to shine through. He turned on his heel and left the little group, along with the weight of the hive mind they represented, behind him as he returned to his human life with what was left of the Consortium. As he slid into his car and pulled away from the curb, he smiled a third time. It was almost a merry expression, if one didn't look into his eyes.

What they didn't know wouldn't kill him.

 

_August 2, 1998_ __

_East of Lake Cowan_

_Western Australia_ __

The vaccine worked.

It just didn't work on him.

He scowled out into the distance. Spender was back in power in the Consortium, and Krycek was being the good little errand boy his alien masters demanded. He didn't know how much longer he could stand this without going off the deep end.

Although truth be told, he had the feeling he'd gone off that end, and drowned, right about the time his arm grew back.

Curling his fingers imperceptibly inside the thick rubber glove that continued to fool those around him into believing he was crippled, he took a deep breath and fought to control his impatience. He didn't know why Marita was free of the Oil Aliens while he continued in their thrall. It pissed him off, but he hadn't yet found a way to exorcise the demon inside him. Until he did, he'd bide his time and wait for his chance.

His efforts at containing the parasite within him hadn't been completely successful, but they hadn't been a total failure, either. He had to work carefully, moving forward in small steps, watching his back as he went.

Story of his life.

He could feel the alien parasite growing less aware of him, in ignorance of his independent actions. It still controlled him, but the blankness was less complete with each possession. Now he remembered the people he killed. It was a good beginning. Eventually, he believed he would be able to consciously contain the alien without alerting the rest of the hive mind.

Until that happened, he would continue to fight his battle on all fronts. His battle ... and theirs.

"This gives us the edge we need!" A short skinny man in a big hat stared earnestly up at Cancerman's face and chopped his hands up and down. As if gesticulation could carry him through where words had failed him.

"Enlighten me," Cancerman told him dryly. Krycek, listening with apparent disinterest, winced internally. The little scientist had no idea how close he was to dead.

"We have determined that the Oil Aliens and the Grey Aliens are two distinct species, no?"

"Yes," Cancerman nodded with exaggerated patience. The geneticist plowed on, oblivious to the warning signs.

"And they are in conflict over the usage of our planet. Our peoples. The Greys, they wish to use us for foodstuff. The Oils, for carriers. They do not coexist well, these two."

"I would imagine the Oil could cause the Grey embryos indigestion."

Even the scientist heard the cutting edge in Cancerman's words. His shoulders rose defensively up to his ears. Krycek moved closer, left hand going to the butt of his gun in preparation for the word to pop the little whiner.

"With this virus, we can approach the Grey Aliens! Broker a deal! In exchange for control, for power, we offer the weapon that can kill their rival!"

Krycek stilled, the alien presence within him shivering. Cancerman stared down at the geneticist. He looked thoughtful, as if he was actually considering the offer. Krycek's hand curved more tightly around the stock of his pistol. He might not have to pop the scientist. The alien inside him might take care of both the other men at the same time.

Unfortunately, it didn't come to that. Krycek sighed as Cancerman placed a hand on the scientist's shoulder and led him off, the little man's hands flapping constantly as he jabbered. Too damned bad the Oil Alien couldn't be turned on and off like a portable thermonuclear strobe light. It would be a hell of a weapon.

The soft, distinct crack of bone breaking brought his attention back to the present. There was a soft thud deep in the corn, and only one man returned from the field, wiping corn dust off his pants with a handkerchief.

"Back to the hotel, Alex," Cancerman told him jovially.

Krycek raised an eyebrow at him and glanced once toward the field that now held the well-hidden body of the scientist. He didn't say a word. Cancerman frowned at him.

"Even collaborators don't show all their cards, Alex. Surely you know that."

As the old man ducked into the back of the car, Krycek walked toward the driver's seat. Black ink shot through his eyes when he was face front, not noticeable by anyone else. Holding a trump card up his sleeve? He smiled and the ink shifted.

Yes. He certainly knew about that. Even if he was the card, not the one holding it.

Concentrating fiercely, he forced the stray manifestations of the Oil Alien back below the surface. Over the months, it had gotten easier. Easier to manipulate when it was hibernating within him; easier to maintain contact with reality while it was awake, even if he had no say over his actions. As time went by, the Oil Alien became comfortable in his body, certain it had complete control over him and that he, as a mere drone, would do as it commanded. It grew complacent.

He didn't.

 

_November 20, 1999_ __

_Outside Villa Ojo de Agua, Paraguay_

Hector Rojas looked like he'd been chewed up and spat out by a pack of hyena. Flesh hung off his frame, muscles and ligaments torn from the bones. His eyes were missing, his scalp was shredded, and the chewed remains of his swollen tongue protruded from between his gaping jaws. Krycek had seen a lot of disgusting corpses, created more than a few himself. This one had him clenching his jaw to keep from losing his lunch.

Then the Oil Alien took over, and he took a mental step back, watching curiously, his parasite completely unaware of his interest. Rojas' body twitched. Krycek waited.

He couldn't do anything else at this point. He was just along for the ride.

The twitch grew until it was a continuous writhing, the destroyed limbs flailing in the dirt. Krycek looked more closely, trying to ignore the out-of-body feeling he always got when he was hitchhiking on the Oil Alien's consciousness. Rojas' skin, what was left of it, was now falling off his arms and legs in chunks. His torso was shuddering, and a lot of flesh along with a little blood peeled away in layers. When the shaking stopped, Rojas looked very different than he had when it had begun.

For one thing, he wasn't falling to pieces anymore. He was one piece. One perfectly healthy, perfectly whole human specimen with smooth dark brown skin and a full head of shiny black hair. Bright black eyes, brighter and blacker than humanly possible, shone out of what had been empty sockets.

Krycek was impressed.

He'd felt the regeneration from the inside, but he'd never seen it from the perspective of a bystander. It was incredible, if gruesome. He wondered what it looked like when his arm grew back. He'd been subsumed at the time and missed the show.

He hadn't figured out, then, how to look out through the alien's eyes.

The group-voice whispered through his head and he eavesdropped.

Work continued against the rebels. Further work was needed to disrupt the Enemy's plans for colonization. The tingle along the knobs lining the top of his spine clued Krycek in that he was the center of the group-mind's attention. With that warning, he did everything he could to stay mentally still. He didn't want them to know he was there.

From what he'd been able to gather, he was the only human host who'd been able to pull this off. He didn't want them to discover it. He'd died before. It sucked. He didn't want to die again.

He had the feeling it might be permanent if he did, if the Oil Aliens had anything to do with it.

The tingling grew until his entire neck itched. He squashed the impulse to scratch. The mind-voice droned on. There were times when they were even more impressed with the sound of their voice than the windbags in the Consortium.

There was another threat, they whispered. Human/Grey hybrids. The Enemy's version of the future, one which would eradicate the Oil Aliens with the vaccine, then pave the way for the Enemy's crèche ships to land en masse. The Oil Aliens would cease to exist.

As good as this sounded to Krycek, it didn't make his alien parasite happy at all. Another assignment was given. Find the abominations.

Destroy them.

 

_January 25, 2000_ __

_Bethesda_ _, Maryland_ __

The Oil Aliens were scavengers. Krycek stared at the degenerating corpse that would eventually peel off and waken as another host, and had to give them marks for ingenuity. By using the Greys' castoffs, they not only got usable bodies to turn into regenerative hosts, but they also retrieved a mass of information from the former hostages. Intelligence gathering at its finest. As one of the best, he could appreciate stellar work, even if it was done by alien body-snatchers.

Once the flesh and blood stopped falling away, Krycek perched on the grass next to the newest member of his little fraternity and felt the alien take surface control of his mind. The world went inky-tinged, and the familiar sensation of floating outside his body hit him.

Images formed in his mind. The new host's memories of her time on the Greys' ship. A young male, aged approximately twenty five, Hispanic, long black hair, metal rods piercing his abdomen, shoulders, knees, feet and face. An older woman, mid-forties, African, flat on a table with a tube running through her uterus, another up her nose into her brain, a third into the base of her spine. Another man, late thirties, brown hair, Caucasian, held in place with metal bands at forehead, wrists, ankles and waist. Probes entered through the sides of his torso, his cheeks, the roof of his mouth. Hazel eyes screamed silently in agony. Krycek would have screamed in concert if he'd had the ability.

Mulder.

The Greys had Mulder.

For the first time since he'd begun his stealth infiltration of the Oil Alien's consciousness, Krycek lost control. Memories deluged him. Fighting not to give himself away and risk losing himself forever, fighting equally hard to separate the woman's memories from his own, he was at the mercy of his memory.

It hurt.

Images flashed over his mind's eye, so fast they blurred, not fast enough to dim the pain. Standing with his hand outstretched, playing the role of his life but still ridiculously hurt when Mulder turned away from him. The muffled pfft of the silencer as it took Bill Mulder's life before he could place his son in mortal jeopardy with the truth. The heat of Mulder's body stretched over his own across the top of a car. Pressed against a bank of telephones. Scraping across the rough stone wall of a gulag cell. The scent of his skin as Krycek kissed him the first time.

And the second.

The unexpected strength of Mulder's arms as they fought. Fucked. Fought again. The morbid black humor that so perfectly matched his own. Siberia. Idaho. DC. The top of Skyland mountain. The middle of the forest. The god-forsaken desert. The first time Mulder died.

And the second.

His own words flowed back to haunt him. "Listen very carefully, because what I'm telling you is deadly serious. There's a war raging, and unless you pull your head out of the sand you and I and about five billion other people are going to go the way of the dinosaur. There is one law: Fight or die. One rule: Resist or serve."

What did a man do when he could do neither? Pushing past the gut-deep fear beating through him at the realization that the Enemy had Mulder, his concerns melding with the Oil Aliens for the first time, although not with the same emphasis, a single thought bubbled through his confusion.

Figured. The X File to end all X Files, and Mulder goes walkabout with the Greys.

 

_February 12, 2000_ __

_Federal Penitentiary, Montana_

Finally in control of his faculties again, Krycek stole away from his duties to the Oil Aliens and made contact with the man who would help him save Mulder.

"Absalom," he said quietly. The prisoner looked back at him calmly. Krycek felt the shift in pressure as the oil flowed over the surface of his eyes. Absalom's eyes rounded in response. "We fight the same enemy."

Absalom shuddered. "You're just as much a threat as they are!" he hissed in response. Krycek smiled, showing his teeth.

"The enemy of your enemy is your friend. We don't abduct humans. We don't feed off them. We don't," he dropped his voice to a near-whisper, "conduct experiments on them then throw them away to die."

He waited while Absalom thought it over. What he'd said was the literal truth. No need for the man to know what the Oil Aliens **did** do with humans. Eventually, the man nodded.

"What do you want from me?"

Krycek recited a number and watched while Absalom committed it to memory, lips moving as he repeated it over and over.

"When you're free." He made it a command. Absalom nodded. Krycek pressed the remnants of parasite back below the surface, unseen again.

For the moment, it was the best he could do.

 

_Jefferson_ _ Memorial Park_ __

_March 2, 2001_ __

_3:18 am_ __

Once caught, forever enslaved, regardless of his brief forays into independence. At least he'd been able to spare Mulder the same fate. Even if he had been forced to lie to and manipulate Skinner to do it.

He was used to that. It was kind of fun, actually. Especially when he broke out the nanobot box.

Pain ripped through his spine, causing his fingers and toes to curl as his muscles spasmed again. It was different than death, but it hurt almost as much. The more control he managed to steal, the worse the pain became. The other drones felt none, because it was absorbed by the group. He didn't have that luxury, but he gladly gave it up in return for the control he was winning, day by day, over his parasite. It was worth the pain; he was used to pain.

The voices sang through him, whispering more in his blood than his mind, and he gave himself over to them. For the brief periods when the alien within him still required complete control Krycek was forced into an uneasy dual existence. An eavesdropper on his own life.

It was better than being a prisoner of the Greys. Not by much, but at least he had a chance to survive. He hadn't been able to spare Mulder from that.

Not at first, anyway.

The mind-voice intensified. An abomination survived. It would have to be terminated. The parasite inhabiting the drone who had been Billy Miles had been dispatched to ensure successful completion of the termination. An image formed. The target. Krycek blinked.

Scully. What **had** she been up to? She was big as a house and ready to burst. With a demon seed, if their intelligence was to be believed. Krycek could buy it. Weirder things had happened, and probably would again. Now he had to see what he could do with the information. Not that he gave a flying fuck about Scully. He never had.

But Mulder ... Mulder was at risk, and this could be his opportunity to make damned sure the man survived.

 

_May 8-9, 2001_ __

_Washington_ _, DC_ _ environs_

The trip to the hospital was a blur. Once there, he looked into Skinner's desperate dark eyes and smiled, thumb hovering over the kill-switch on the nanotechnology control box.

"Kill Scully's baby."

The second level of his plan went as smoothly as the first. Doggett was as easy to manipulate as Mulder, if not nearly as enjoyable. Krycek dropped the information that Mulder was suffering from a virus to clue Scully in to the benefits of anti-viral medications, even if she didn't know what she was fighting. Then he waved a nicely-colored bottle of bright red fluid, scavenged from a drone body as it was regenerating, in front of Doggett's face. Dropped it to a satisfying crash on the cement, then did his best to run over the agent, just for the verisimilitude of the scenario, of course. Well, that, plus a guy had to have some fun somewhere along the line.

It was a fool-proof plan. If Skinner caved in to the pain and pressure, the fetus would die, the abomination would be gone, and he would have leverage to bring to negotiations with the Oil Aliens should they ever discover his ability to coexist with his parasite. If Skinner took the noble route, saved the child and sacrificed the man, then the newly active Oil Alien wouldn't take over Mulder's regenerated body and turn him into a drone. Everyone won.

Given Skinner's propensity to go out on a limb for Mulder, Krycek wasn't completely convinced the man's better nature would prevail. In the end, though, he read Skinner right, as he usually had. The mad scramble to 'kill' Mulder, Scully's equally mad scramble to get him on IV drugs, and Doggett's time-eating failure to stop Krycek himself put Mulder out of danger from the Oil Aliens.

It made Mulder something of a wonder, Krycek mused. He'd escaped the virus, the rebels, the clones, the bees, the Consortium, his own father, the Oil Aliens, **and** the Greys. It was a good thing he was thinking about retirement, while he still had one of his nine lives left.

Before Krycek found time to dwell on the interesting possibilities of he and Mulder not being on opposite sides for a change, pain struck again. His blood hummed and the knobs along the top of his spine burned.

The next twenty four hours were a race against time, playing all sides against the middle and trying to keep his head above water. The urgency rang through him to come to the place where the abomination was and kill it. His rational mind, what was left of it outside the cone of intense pressure from the presence of the Oil Alien, was focused on Mulder. He found himself lying to Skinner, lying to Doggett, staring at Mulder like a dying man staring at salvation, and fighting the almost overpowering urge to shoot Scully.

Then Billy Miles showed up.

Skinner told him to sit down. Krycek ignored him, heading directly out the door for the elevator. Skinner yelled at him to hold the door. Krycek continued to ignore him. Skinner made it anyway.

Damn. Killing Skinner would've slowed Miles down enough to give Krycek a head start.

Miles' hand came through the door, nearly taking Skinner's head off. Krycek swallowed hard and looked on impassively. Conflicting urges were paralyzing him. Making him spout nonsense about new breeds of aliens and second coming babies that would have made him puke, if he'd been paying any attention to it. As it was, he could only hold on to his self-control with his fingertips and wait for the hell he could feel was coming to erupt. When it didn't, he took matters into his own hands.

It was either that, or cede control of his body to the Oil Alien. And if he did that, Mulder would have no chance. They would all be pummeled or crisped out of existence. He wasn't quite ready for that yet.

He had plans for Mulder.

So he played good little host drone for Doggett's ex-friend, long enough to get everyone out of the way so he could have a clear shot at Mulder. If he could get the man's attention in private, Krycek could spill the events of the past several months to him. Maybe get him away from his Scully fixation long enough to save his life.

As he should have expected, it didn't go quite the way he planned.

Oh, he got Mulder's attention, all right. Even managed to hold on to it, with the help of a gun aimed at Mulder's head. But Krycek was losing his battle to retain control. At any moment, the Oil Alien could assert itself, and Mulder would die. Then movement at the corner of his eye caught his attention. Skinner had arrived.

Time for plan B.

Doing his best impersonation of a psychotic driven over the edge into lunacy, or perhaps stupidity run rampant, Krycek began to babble death threats at Mulder. From the look in the calm hazel eyes staring back at him, he knew Mulder wasn't buying it. Skinner, happily, was.

The sniveling had been hard enough. Trying to convince Mulder that he really, really had to kill him when he really, really didn't want to was tough. Stalling so damned long was always a bitch.

Getting Skinner to pull the fucking trigger already, without benefit of his little magic box, was a major pain in the ass. Leave it to the AD to want his pound of flesh before he finally ended it.

Or thought he did.

Krycek didn't bother trying to hold back the whine of pain when the first bullet shattered his wrist. The second one going through his elbow bumped the whine up to a couple strangled yelps. For a moment, he forgot that he was supposed to still be maimed, and nearly gave the game away by picking up the gun with his plastic-gloved hand.

Old instincts died hard.

At the last second he remembered his role, and stiffened his fingers, managing to shove the pistol away an inch instead of picking it up and blowing Walter Skinner's bruised bald dome all over the goddamned parking lot. Instead, he made yet another bargain he knew Skinner wouldn't take. In a choice for Skinner between Mulder and an unborn baby, the outcome was a risk. Between Mulder and Krycek, it was a no-brainer.

The bullet between his eyes was a relief.

There was a flare of light followed by nearly unbearable pressure in his skull. He felt himself fall, but autonomous reaction was all he was capable of in his current condition. Curled up in a fetal ball staring at the cement of the parking garage over his head, he felt the last of the air leave his lungs. Felt his heart still. Heard, dimly, as Mulder reacted exactly as expected, stepping around him like last week's garbage and heading for the car to go protect Scully.

She needed it.

Krycek didn't.

Mulder didn't know that.

It hurt his feelings, a little. There he was, tortured, murdered for Christ's sake, because shouldn't a law-abiding official of the FBI have contented himself with arresting a wanted felon, without delivering the coup d'grace between the fucking eyes? Whatever happened to minimal necessary force? And Mulder! A catch in his voice would have been nice. A moment's hesitation as he stepped over Krycek's rapidly-cooling body would have been appreciated.

Of course, the completely dead tone of Mulder's voice made it pretty clear he wasn't happy with the way things had played out. And he had called Krycek 'Alex.' Since they never called one another by their first names, even in the middle of hot monkey sex, it was pretty obvious he was doing what he had to do.

Weren't they all.

Wasn't it a bitch.

After Mulder left, Skinner came over and kicked him in the side. Not hard, had to give him that. But firm enough to tell if Krycek was faking.

So Skinner thought.

But then, Skinner never had known the whole story. For the 'big picture guy' he was pretty clueless. Good thing, too. That was the only reason he was still alive.

The kick didn't hurt. Physical function was down to baseline for the adjustments that had been made to his body, so for all intents and purposes Krycek was dead. Of course, that just meant the bruise would ache later.

Skinner did like to get his kicks in, any way he could. Punching a handcuffed man in the gut, shooting an unarmed -- literally -- man in the head, kicking a dead man in the ribs. All from a man who used to be such an idealist.

Wasn't it interesting what life in the trenches could do to a man? Not in the trenches of war, for Skinner had survived those with his soul intact. But the trenches of the battle for the future of the Earth. No one survived intact in that war.

Krycek certainly hadn't.

An hour later, the bullet extruded from his skull as the wound healed from the deepest recesses of his brain outward, pushing the intruder out as it closed. The severed veins and muscles, shattered bones and ripped skin of his arm had long since repaired itself. The head wound, being the most severe, took the longest to heal.

Hurt like a son of a bitch, too.

Rolling gracefully over, body already working smoothly again, Krycek came to his knees then pushed himself to his feet. He shrugged to release the tension with which violent death had seized his muscles. The lingering cramping would soon fade. His left hand itched under its heavy plastic covering, and he absently pulled the glove off.

No further need for that particular charade, now. As far as the FBI was concerned, he was well and truly dead. Skinner had killed him with his own gun.

It was a good thing Mulder was no longer with the FBI. Some things were too much trouble to admit to knowing. As for Scully, they'd know soon enough what would have to be done about her. And Doggett? Negligible threat. He hadn't known a damned thing from the get-go, and regardless of his excellence as an agent, there were some things he was simply never going to understand.

Although it might be fun to watch him try.

Stifling his smirk, Krycek disappeared into the shadows of the parking garage, moving carefully between the cars so that the surveillance cameras wouldn't see more than they already had. He'd have Marlon in Communications take care of the tape of his return from the dead. Then, like his two cohorts, his 'body' would inexplicably vanish. Alex Krycek would return to the place where he felt most comfortable for as long as his parasite would allow.

The shadows made for good cover.

Not far from FBI headquarters, on the banks of the Potomac by the trees in the park, barely lit by the reflection of the lights from the Jefferson Memorial, Krycek sank to his knees. His head fell forward, and his hands dug into the grass. The small triangular nubs along the top of his spine itched, and his eyes turned ink-black.

He really hated this part.

 

_May 11, 2001_ __

_Arlington_ _, Virginia_ __

_12:09 am_ __

His blood was screaming at him to go to Butt's End, Georgia, but Krycek was too damned tired to listen. Dying, especially the way he had, took a lot out of a man. Head buried under the pillow of the motel bed, he concentrated on retaining the slim thread of control he had over his parasite. It was hard to shut it out when all he wanted to do was sleep, but he had the nasty suspicion if he slept he'd wake up to find himself in the middle of a lynch mob with a dead Scully at their feet.

Mulder would have a hard time getting past that.

So suddenly he nearly got mental whiplash, the urging stopped. His entire body, tensed for as long as the voice had been whispering, collapsed against the mattress, which squeaked a protest. His eyes opened and he rolled over to stare up at the ceiling. The voice was whispering again, and it sounded ... vaguely embarrassed. Concentrating, it took him a few moments to decipher what it was muttering.

It sounded a lot like 'oops.'

Before he could figure out what was going on, sleep ambushed him. Sixteen hours later he finally surfaced.

With daylight came clarification. An image flickered in his mind, seen through several sets of eyes. Scully, hair plastered to her skull with sweat; Reyes, looking pie-eyed and excited; and a red-fuzz-topped, tip-nosed, squinty-eyed **human** baby.

No Grey anywhere.

Months of build-up, for that? Krycek grinned. He wasn't the only one to pull one over on the hive mind. The Oil Aliens were scary, but they weren't particularly swift. There was a good reason the Greys were winning the battle. The thought killed his grin. Shrugging off depression over a battle he'd been fighting for years and would continue to fight, he climbed out of bed.

Pulling on jeans, tee shirt, boots, and leather jacket, he headed off to verify his vision with his own two eyes. It was early evening by the time he arrived outside the duplex Scully now shared with her mother.

Mulder pulled up to the curb a few feet in front of him.

Going on instinct, not wanting to get into his resurrection in the middle of the street within earshot of Scully, Krycek curled down in his seat and made himself as invisible as possible. Mulder walked obliviously past him and bounded up the stairs. Krycek sighed.

It really was a wonder Mulder had lived as long as he had. For a man with as many targets painted on him as Mulder had, he was amazingly clueless.

Slinking out of his car and following on Mulder's heels, Krycek kept himself just out of sight. Tailing Mulder had always been one of his favorite activities. Mulder never caught on, so Krycek didn't have to be afraid of getting caught, and the rear view was incredible. He indulged himself all the way up the stairs, then ducked around the corner as Mulder went in. Once the door was shut behind him, Krycek pulled out his tool kit and let himself into Scully's apartment.

Murmurs from the direction of her bedroom lured him further in. Keeping out of sight, he peered around the corner. Mulder was holding Scully's baby, looking like he was afraid it would explode if he held on too tightly. Scully was looking mushy. Mulder muttered something about fear and possibilities and truth, making about as much sense to Scully as he did to Krycek from the look on her face. Approximately none. Then they hugged around the baby and Mulder leaned down to kiss her.

Krycek watched critically. Love, yeah. Caring, sure. Passion? Not that he could see. He heard Scully tell Mulder that she'd named the baby after Mulder's father and nearly gave away his position by laughing out loud. Honor Mulder by naming the baby after the father who'd made his life completely miserable? Tried to give him up for alien experimentation? Collaborated with the enemies of his world? Gave his little sister away to a life of unadulterated hell?

Perhaps in the excitement of the bizarre birth, she'd forgotten her own father was named William. Naming the brat after **him** would make a hell of a lot more sense. The fact that Mulder stood there and let her say it told Krycek everything he needed to know about Mulder's frame of mind.

Feeling unbearably smug, Krycek stepped out as silently as he'd entered. Mulder might think he wanted Scully and domestic bliss now that he could no longer have the X Files and the chase after the elusive Truth. Krycek knew better.

Mulder wanted what he thought he couldn't have. He always had. It was hardwired.

Krycek was looking forward to giving Mulder what he thought he'd never have again. As soon as he cleaned up some unfinished business. Prioritizing tasks in his mind, he climbed into his car and reached for the key.

The sound of the front door slamming shut stopped him before he could turn the ignition. Mulder, looking at peace if a little sad, had nearly stepped on Krycek's heels coming down the stairs. Krycek gulped.

Looked like Mulder wasn't the only one who could be oblivious. Distraction was dangerous. He'd've had hell to pay if Mulder had caught him skulking around Scully's place. He ducked down as Mulder drove past, then cautiously pulled out and followed.

Mulder went straight home. Took the elevator up to his floor while Krycek took the stairs. Krycek watched from the end of the hall as Mulder, grinning softly at nothing in particular, let himself into his apartment. By the time Krycek had waited for sounds of movement inside to abate, slipped the lock and let himself in, Mulder was in bed.

Not on the couch. In bed.

Asleep.

No nightmares, just sleep. One hand lay on the pillow, curled into a loose fist beside his cheek, the other spread across the sheets. Sprawled half on his side, half on his back, the position should have been damned uncomfortable but looked inviting enough that Krycek took two steps forward to join him before catching himself. He still had that unfinished business to attend to, and if he didn't leave that moment, he never would.

He was mentally pulling the sheet away from Mulder's naked body when he arrived at Doggett's house. Putting vivid fantasies on hold, Krycek broke out his tools for the third time that night. Shaking his head over how easy it was to get into the private retreats of supposedly professional federal agents, he stalked through the ordered mess of Doggett's domain and into the bedroom. Prepared for the reception he got, he had his own gun out and trained on Doggett before he reached out and shook one bare shoulder.

It turned out to be a good thing. Doggett slept with a gun under his pillow.

Before he could pull it out, Krycek leaned forward and shoved the muzzle of his own under Doggett's ear. Doggett froze.

"Good doggy," Krycek purred. Doggett tensed and glared up at him. Krycek grinned back.

"You're dead," Doggett informed him. Krycek's smile widened.

"Reports of my death have been greatly exaggerated," he paraphrased. Doggett's glare intensified. "But that's not important right now. What I have to tell you goes further than my ability to handle AD Skinner's murderous rage. You need to know this."

"Know what?" Doggett growled.

Krycek had to admit to a certain reluctant admiration. Doggett didn't give up, and he didn't show fear easily. That would come in handy, given what he'd have to face as he continued on in the X Files.

"There are more angles to the conspiracy than there appear to be. This is a warning. Cast your net wider than Kirsch. He's just a front man. Important to you, but expendable in the bigger picture."

"What is this bigger picture you're talkin' about?" Doggett looked skeptical. Krycek was used to it.

"You'll see. Be ready to use it when you see it." Driven by a whim, Krycek leaned over, ghosting a kiss over Doggett's cheek. The man tensed until he practically quivered, but he didn't move. "Watch your back," Krycek whispered. Then he flipped his gun over and cracked Doggett over the ear with the grip. The lights went out in the bright blue eyes and Krycek backed away from the bed. Doggett would have a hell of a headache in the morning, but at least Krycek would escape without getting shot. Hopefully Doggett would remember and heed Krycek's warning.

It was the least Krycek could do to protect Mulder's legacy. God knew no one else seemed to care.

The next stop on Krycek's tour of FBI hot spots was one he'd really been looking forward to making. The security system at the high rise apartment took a little work, but not much. A well-timed entry through the delivery door, rigging the wires on a surveillance camera, hijacking and re-routing the motion alarm; child's play. There were three locks on the door, but he had them open in under a minute.

The occupant wasn't home yet, so Krycek helped himself to a glass of orange juice and settled into a dark corner to wait. He took the nanobot control box from his pocket, drained the last of the juice and licked his lips clean. He tossed the glass carelessly on the carpet. Less than fifteen minutes later, the door opened. Skinner closed and carefully locked the door behind him, then walked to the wall pad to key in his alarm combination. As he noticed that it was disabled and reached for his gun, Krycek hit the lever.

Skinner gave an altogether satisfying cry as he bent double and fell to the floor. It almost made up for the agony Krycek had gone through as he healed from the bullets to his arm and skull. Of course, to be fair, he had put Skinner through it first. But if they were playing 'who's on first,' well, Skinner had asked for it by punching Krycek when he had his hand cuffed and couldn't fight back. Not to mention tossing his ass out on the balcony to freeze all fucking night.

A muffled squeal from the man huddled in a fetal ball along the sideboard brought his wandering memories back to the present. Krycek took his time as he rose from his seat and walked across the floor to stand over Skinner. After staring down at his twitching, grimacing victim for a little while, Krycek knelt next to him. Skinner stared up at him with a horrified look in his eyes. Krycek took his face in both hands and kissed him hard, on the forehead directly over the cut.

The taste of blood made him smile all over again.

Dropping Skinner back to the floor, Krycek asked him quietly, "You didn't think it would be that easy to get rid of me, did you? To put an end to all this?"

Skinner tried to open his mouth to answer him, but his jaw was clenched too tightly to pry it open. Krycek put on an appropriately solemn expression, then deliberately cranked the nanobots up several notches. This time it wasn't a squeal. Skinner gave a full-throated, if strangled, scream. As he began to lose consciousness, Krycek leaned over again. Pitching his voice so that Skinner could hear him over his own pained groans, Krycek promised, "I'll be watching."

He stepped over Skinner's spasming body and methodically unlocked the door, taking care with all three locks. Closing the door behind him, he paused outside, head cocked, listening. The thrashing noises and thumps combined with the cut-off gasps of pain caused him to give a happy sigh.

He didn't turn the nanobots off until he was in his car, driving away from the apartment. There was a definite sense of satisfaction in his night's work. Skinner had given him nightmares for a long time. It felt fitting that now it would be Krycek's turn to give Skinner a few.

 

_June 18, 2001_ __

_Arlington_ _, Virginia_ __

_2:41 am_ __

Mulder looked ridiculously innocent, lying sleeping in his bed. The sheets weren't wound around him, the pillow wasn't wet with sweat, his hands weren't bunched into fists against the linens. Krycek grinned. Those symptoms were bad when they were caused by nightmares. But there were other ways to get Mulder wound up, and he was looking forward to doing all of them. One after another. For days.

It had taken Krycek weeks to slip away from the group-mind, after the confusion with the not-hybrid-after-all baby. Now that he was finally with Mulder again he planned to make the best of it.

"You gonna sit there forever or say something?" Mulder didn't open his eyes. Krycek leaned forward and brushed his hair off his forehead.

"How'd you know it was me?"

One sleepy hazel eye peeped open. "Contrary to popular opinion, there really aren't that many people who come into my bedroom in the middle of the night. And you're wearing too many clothes. Or are you playing hard to get now?" The smirk on his face made it clear he didn't believe it. Krycek shrugged and glared down at him.

"I don't know. You were pretty damned cold about my presumed death."

The second eye opened, and Mulder rolled over, propping his head on his hand and slanting Krycek an openly inviting look. "Oh, I knew you weren't dead."

This was too much. "Mulder! I took a fucking bullet between the eyes!"

"But I knew it wasn't you."

Such smug surety. Krycek growled at him. "And how did you know that?"

Mulder preened. "You were babbling like an asshole. You let Skinner sneak up on you. You were totally out of control. You whined. And you let me call you Alex, without laughing in my face. Ergo, it couldn't be you."

Krycek didn't know whether to laugh or smack him. "Who did you think it was?"

It was tricky to shrug in that position and not fall over, but Mulder managed. "A clone, a shape-shifter, a ringer, a robot, your long-lost twin brother --"

Needing to stop him before he could turn them into a soap opera, Krycek leaned forward and covered Mulder's mouth with his own. It tasted as sweet, and was taken advantage of as quickly, as ever. He smiled into the kiss. It was good to be home. He gave himself up to the deep pleasure for awhile, then reluctantly pulled away.

"It was me," he said quietly. Mulder opened his mouth to make a smart come-back, then looked into Krycek's eyes and froze.

"Shit," he breathed. "How?"

Krycek took a deep breath and allowed a trace of the Oil Alien to show in his eyes. Mulder sat bolt upright, grabbed him by the shoulders and dragged him bodily onto the bed.

"Son of a bitch." Mulder searched his face. Krycek sat still for the scrutiny for a few moments, then pulled the slivers of parasite back into hiding. "You can control it?"

There was a healthy dose of excitement in Mulder's voice that was echoed in his body. It gave Krycek the shivers. He shook his head. "Not completely, and not when it's active, only when it's hibernating."

"It hibernates?" Mulder's voice rose at the end, almost into an embarrassing squeak, but he was too excited to notice. Krycek sighed.

"Yeah, and when it wakes up, I turn into a zombie."

The excitement bled away immediately, leaving concern and determination behind. "What can we do about it?"

Krycek leaned closer until his mouth was next to Mulder's ear. "How do you feel about performing a little exorcism?"

Mulder laughed. His breath puffing past Krycek's cheek felt good. Krycek shifted forward until their bodies were touching all along the front. That felt even better. He raised his right hand, freed from the imprisoning rubber glove, and stroked Mulder's mouth, lingering on his lower lip. Mulder's eyes widened. His mouth opened and he nipped lightly at the fingers. Krycek shivered again.

"Miracle?" Mulder sounded serious, if a little muffled, talking around the fingertips. Krycek shook his head.

"One of the few perks of being possessed." He brought both hands up to cup Mulder's face and leaned in for a long, slow kiss. By the time they finally pulled apart, Krycek realized that somewhere along the line they'd ended up flat on the bed, with himself draped over Mulder. Neither was in a hurry to move.

"I knew it wasn't over. Not with you." Mulder's voice made it clear he was satisfied with that. Krycek couldn't help but agree.

"It never will be. Not with us. Now about that exorcism ..."

Mulder was the one to shut him up, then. When they broke for air, he assured Krycek, "We'll work on it." And they did. Later.

Much later.

** _THE END_ **


End file.
